


An Eden of our Own

by Zedrobber



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Commission fic, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Other, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), happy soft tender fluff, lazy sunny days, no pain here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-30
Updated: 2019-09-30
Packaged: 2020-11-08 09:06:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20832908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zedrobber/pseuds/Zedrobber
Summary: A commission for Jiwa who wanted some good old fashioned South Downs fluff that included breakfast. Thank you so much and I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it for you :)





	An Eden of our Own

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jiwa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jiwa/gifts).

  
  


It was funny how things sometimes turned out, Aziraphale pondered happily, looking out of the kitchen window onto a gloriously golden and warm morning. He could almost  _ feel  _ the promise of the hot, hazy summer afternoon to come, could taste the sun-soaked air, the salty tang of sweat on lips, the pollen-laden breeze that cooled the skin. 

_ I’ll make us a picnic, _ he decided, beaming to himself as he sipped the first tea of the day - a delicious little Earl Grey blend he’d found at a local market.  _ With cake. _

How could he have guessed, even just a few years back, that  _ this _ could be his life. He had hoped, of course - oh yes, Aziraphale had hoped and yearned and  _ dreamed _ of something as simple and quiet as this; a cottage in the South Downs, a little garden of his own - wild with a tangled riot of glorious, clashing colour, wildflowers and sunflowers and roses and pansies and hyacinths, all apparently completely indifferent to their supposed blooming months and their geographical origin thanks to Crowley’s (much more gentle these days) encouragement - that had a vegetable patch and a soft lawn and a tiny patio to put out their table and chairs; and perhaps most unbelievably, someone to share it all with, all of this peace and warmth and love.

The toaster  _ dinged  _ impatiently, and Aziraphale sighed as he eyed the rather badly burned toast, smoke drifting ominously upwards. He hadn’t quite got the hang of it yet. Still, the rest looked edible enough, delicious even, so he took it as a success. Humming quietly to himself, he began to plate up - bacon, grilled tomatoes, fried eggs (for Crowley), poached eggs (for Aziraphale), mushrooms, all heaped carefully onto plates that were quite frankly only just large enough.

“Morning, angel,” mumbled Crowley from the doorway. Aziraphale never needed to actually  _ wake _ Crowley up, though often he did slip back into bed for lazy morning kisses; the smell of bacon usually roused him perfectly well on its own, an irresistible - and reliable - alarm clock. Though he hated to admit it - and would  _ absolutely _ deny all knowledge of if asked - Aziraphale regularly employed the unnecessary cooking of bacon as a way to get Crowley out of bed when he got tired of waiting. There was a limit to an angel’s patience, and Crowley being asleep at 4pm was absolutely _ it.  _

“Good morning, my dear,” he smiled fondly, wielding the plates enticingly. Crowley was barely awake, eyes half-closed against the honey-glazed sunlight in the kitchen, oblivious to how it bathed him in gold. He was leaning against the doorframe in a way which suggested that he hadn’t quite remembered how his legs worked yet, wearing only boxers and with his hair the kind of sleep-rumpled mess that  _ could _ have been a deliberate and artfully arranged mess with only the judicious application of hair spray.

_ He’s beautiful, _ Aziraphale thought, just as he had thought hundreds of mornings before and as he would for thousands of mornings to come. The fact that the thought was uncomplicated, a beautiful blossoming warmth of love and joy and happiness unmarred by fear or guilt, made it all the sweeter.

“What?” Crowley asked, but the slow, crooked smile that spread over his sleep-soft face said that he knew the thread of Aziraphale’s thoughts and that his own were weaving the same path. 

“Breakfast is ready,” Aziraphale said, letting his own smile do all of the answering for him. 

“Can we eat on the sofa?” Crowley squinted, narrowing his eyes against the sun. “It’s too bright in here.”

“Of course.”

They settled onto the sofa - a soft and exquisitely squishy one at Aziraphale’s request, in a charcoal colour at Crowley’s - in companionable silence, plates balanced on their knees. Aziraphale usually preferred to eat at the table; meticulous and neat, he had initially found the idea of lounging while eating breakfast a little horrifying. However, he had to admit that it meant a much faster transition to the delightful activity of snuggling, and Crowley always seemed much happier in the mornings if he could stretch out afterwards, and so now they allowed themselves the luxury of this decadent and informal meal at least twice a week. 

It also had the delightful effect of making every day feel like a holiday - and, Aziraphale supposed that it was. No Heaven or Hell breathing down their necks, no Apocalypse, no hellfire or holy water (except for the time Aziraphale accidentally blessed the bathwater, which Crowley had yet to allow him to forget, regularly intoning “Lord, heal this bath,” at the worst moments). Just endless days of bliss.

Crowley, as usual, had almost finished his breakfast by the time Aziraphale had taken a bite. Food never really seemed to be  _ eaten _ by Crowley; you looked away, and then when you looked back it had gone. Aziraphale often wondered idly if he simply unhinged his jaw and tipped the plate down his throat. It wouldn’t have surprised him, but he was yet to catch the wily serpent in the act though he often slid his eyes across to him surreptitiously, just in case.

Crowley dropped the plate onto the coffee table with a gentle thunk, leaning back against the cushions in a contented way. “That was good.” He managed to make himself look as uncomfortable as possible whilst maintaining an air of thorough relaxation. Aziraphale was often rather consternated about it, unable to decipher quite  _ how _ his limbs worked. 

Crowley’s eyes were on him, watching steadily as Aziraphale took bite after bite, gaze trailing from his fork to his lips and back again with a patient fondness. It was strange, but Aziraphale never felt hurried when Crowley did that - somewhere along the six thousand years, Crowley had told him that he simply  _ enjoyed _ watching Aziraphale eat, that he loved seeing the pleasure it brought him and how much he savoured the experience. It was just another quirk of their relationship, now; Aziraphale ate, Crowley ate vicariously by watching and providing extra desserts.

“You done?” Crowley asked, finally, as Aziraphale wiped his mouth with a napkin and put down his plate. 

“Yes, thank you,” Aziraphale confirmed, giving Crowley the permission he needed but wouldn’t ask for by settling back a little further on the seat. 

Crowley made a happy noise in his throat and immediately scooted over so that he could put his head in Aziraphale’s lap, stretching so that his feet were dangling loosely over the edge of the sofa. He looked up, smiling and a little embarrassed even now at being seen to be so openly needy, eyes golden and trusting and so full of love that Aziraphale felt his breath catch. His hand fell to stroking through Crowley’s hair, gently untangling the knots that sleep had left and smoothing it into a glossy silken mass under his fingertips, Crowley humming his pleasure as he relaxed under the tender ministrations of his beloved. 

There was a book, kept within arm’s reach for these moments, and Aziraphale picked it up with his free hand, settling himself comfortably. He knew that Crowley could stay like this for hours, and he adored every moment of it, feeling the thrumming tension that seemed to be Crowley’s habitual state ease out of him slowly until he was a boneless and happy mess. 

“I thought we could have a picnic this afternoon, dearest,” Aziraphale murmured after a while, lifting his book out of the way to look down at the happily sprawled demon. Crowley  _ hmmm _ ’ed as though considering it, though they both knew that was a complete sham.

“I don’t  _ think _ I have other plans,” he said eventually, cracking one eye open to give Aziraphale a wolfish grin. “I might be able to fit you into my very busy -” he yawned “ - schedule.”

“Only if it’s not too much trouble,” Aziraphale said, trying for long-suffering but ruining it by laughing.

“We’ll see,” Crowley replied, wriggling a little as he sought out maximum relaxation. “I am a demon in much demand, you know.”

“You’re utterly insufferable, is what you are,” Aziraphale smiled, leaning down to kiss him. “I don’t even like you.” Crowley reached up for him, capturing his cheek with one gentle hand, thumb stroking across the warm skin with delicate care. It was a slow kiss, unhurried; what hurry was there any more? There was time to pause, to breathe, to entwine themselves so thoroughly into each other that it was often hard to distinguish where one ended and the other began. Which, Aziraphale reflected as they pulled back, unable to resist one more, chaste kiss on the way, was just what he wanted. 

“You do,” Crowley replied finally with a grin; a ritual, one built on the ashes of that painful day at the bandstand. The wound had healed, the exchange now only a playful, gentle reminder of their bond and how hard they had worked to keep each other. 

“I do, my dearest Crowley,” Aziraphale agreed, stroking through Crowley’s hair and hoping that he could feel the infinite depths of his love through that touch. 

“I know,” Crowley reassured him. 

It was only much later, sprawled on their little lawn in the languid late afternoon heat with a bottle of wine between them, that Aziraphale reflected on his thoughts of that morning.  _ Funny how things turn out _ . He glanced lazily over to Crowley, who was on his stomach on the (tartan) picnic blanket, staring out towards the distant coast behind his sunglasses. An angel and a demon. Who would have even known they could be friends, let alone -  _ this. _ Six thousand years of history together, of bickering and laughter and trust, of choosing each other again and again against all the odds, of fighting side by side. Six thousand years of love, in all of its forms, only to culminate here, in a garden, a small and private Eden of their very own, untouchable to the outside world.

Aziraphale could not imagine anything better.


End file.
